


We Don't Say That Word

by fractalgeometry



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Communication, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:02:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24888058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractalgeometry/pseuds/fractalgeometry
Summary: “I love you.”Crowley chokes on the sip of wine he just took. “Youwhat?”“I love you,” Aziraphale repeats patiently.~Aziraphale makes a change in their relationship. Eventually, Crowley warms up to it...and even makes another one.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 51
Kudos: 238
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations, Ixnael’s SFW corner, Our Own Side





	We Don't Say That Word

“I love you.”

Crowley chokes on the sip of wine he just took. “You _what?”_

“I love you,” Aziraphale repeats patiently. 

They’re sitting on the bookshop sofa, at opposite ends, drinking and occasionally exchanging a few words. This, though. This is out of the blue.

Crowley carefully does not take another sip. “You can’t just _say_ things like that, angel.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because we don’t,” Crowley says flatly, and this time he does take a drink. 

They’re silent for several minutes.

“Maybe we should,” Aziraphale says quietly.

“Why?” Crowley asks, slightly less sharp. “Why bother?”

“Because it’s true,” Aziraphale says, still quiet. “Because we can, now. You know it’s true, right?” The last is said a little sharper.

“Of course I know!” Crowley snaps. “It’s not like it’s a secret.” Except it is. Or was. That’s the whole problem. The reason they don’t say it.

“I should like to start,” Aziraphale says thoughtfully. “Are you terribly against it, dear?”

Crowley drinks deeply from his glass and glares at the corner of the side table. “Not entirely,” he admits finally.

“Oh, good!” Aziraphale smiles, and Crowley finds his own face trying to mirror it. Terribly contagious things, Aziraphale’s smiles. 

They sit in silence for several more minutes.

“I can’t,” Crowley says finally. That definitely doesn’t explain what he wanted it to. He tries again. “I can’t say it back. Right now.”

“I didn’t expect you to,” Aziraphale says. “I did change things rather suddenly, just now.”

Crowley snorts in agreement, but it’s affectionate.

“I can change back, if you would rather.”

“Nah.” Crowley quirks the corner of his mouth. “Don’t need to do that.”

They go back to their silence.

~

Crowley does say it, a few weeks later. Aziraphale beams at him, and Crowley feels pleased with himself. 

After a few minutes he blurts, “Is this going to change anything?” 

Seeing Aziraphale’s vaguely uncertain expression, he elaborates. “Typically, when people say they love each other, it’s like, a big step, and people’s expectations change. _You_ know, angel, you’ve been around humans as long as I have!”

Aziraphale is watching him. “Do you want anything to change?”

“Nah,” Crowley says. “We’re just saying words. We’re still us.”

“Then nothing needs to.”

Crowley says nothing about the changes he’s thought about, on occasion. He still doesn’t understand them himself. No need to bring Aziraphale into it.

~

One thing does change, however, and Crowley doesn’t think Aziraphale even realizes it. Apparently now that Aziraphale has started using the word “love” in regard to Crowley, he can’t (or won’t) stop. He says he loves Crowley at least once every time they get together, often offhandedly, or as a farewell. But the one that gets Crowley most is that he starts replacing the millennia-old endearment “dear” with “love”. Not all the time, but often enough that Crowley notices. To be fair, he’d have noticed even if it only happened once, and the repetition definitely catches his attention. He doesn’t mention it, a little afraid that if _Aziraphale_ notices, he’ll stop doing it. 

It’s about a month of this before Crowley brings up anything related to the subject of their relationship or love again. They’re sitting in the bookshop again when he says, “Remember when we said we didn’t want anything to change?”

It is, admittedly, a pretty general statement, but by the way Aziraphale stiffens, Crowley knows he’s thinking of the right instance. He begins to regret bringing it up again.

“Yes,” Aziraphale says carefully. 

It wouldn’t be too hard to chicken out now, backpedal and end the conversation, but Crowley is trying, here. So he pushes on. “What if we did want something to change?”

“Like what?”

“Well…” Crowley abruptly wishes he hadn’t started this conversation. He can’t explain what he wants in _words_. “Like...more touch, maybe?”

“Like sex?” Aziraphale asks, and Crowley’s stomach plummets. Of course it sounded like that’s what he was getting at. 

“If- if you want,” he says, damn his cowardice.

“Do _you_ want that, dear?” Aziraphale asks, damn his perceptiveness.

Crowley shrugs. “Not important.”

“If you want to,” Aziraphale presses, “you have only to tell me. I expect you’re much more experienced in such matters.”

Crowley, who knows for a fact that Aziraphale has experimented with “such matters” several more times than he has — do _not_ ask him how he knows that — wishes he could actually turn back time instead of just freezing it. Since he can’t, he settles for saying, “Nah,” and hoping that’s the end of it.

“What do you mean, then?” Aziraphale asks.

Not the end of it, then. Probably because he’s the one who brought it up in the first place. That’ll teach him to do things like start conversations about emotions. 

Crowley groans and drops his head dramatically backward, stretching his legs out in front of him. Aziraphale, being long experienced with Crowley’s theatrics, looks unperturbed. Bastard.

“Just…” he finally says, and promptly gets stuck again. After a moment, he continues, “You’re over _there,”_ gesturing to Aziraphale in his chair, “and I’m over _here,”_ gesturing to himself, on the sofa, “and it’s awfully far apart.” 

Aziraphale is nodding. “So what if I sit on the sofa as well?”

“That’d be nice,” Crowley mumbles. It’s a start. He’s honestly amazed he got this far.

Aziraphale lifts himself out of his regular seat and sits down at the opposite end of the sofa from Crowley. The middle cushion is almost entirely empty, a void between them. Crowley hates it, just a little.

“‘S still too far apart,” he says after a moment. He says it quietly, like maybe he can pretend it wasn’t him who said it at all.

“I wondered,” Aziraphale says, a shade smugly. “You said ‘more touch’. So is that…”

He trails off, and Crowley snaps. _“Touch,_ angel! I want to sit right up next to each other and maybe put an arm around each other and hold hands on a walk and- and-“

“That sounds _lovely,_ dear,” Aziraphale interrupts, and Crowley suddenly realizes that Aziraphale has been nervous this whole time too, walking on eggshells and trying to figure out what Crowley is getting at. “Would you like to come over here and...sit closer? And you suggested- I could put an arm around you? Or you could me, if you’d rather. Or-”

Crowley is trying very hard to figure out how to say _stop coming up with new ideas, your first one was perfect, yes please put your arm around me_ while also retaining his dignity, which seems poised to fly away at any second. He settles for interrupting Aziraphale’s rambles with a growl that definitely ends up as less of a growl and more of an embarrassed choking noise than he’d like. It works anyway, pausing Aziraphale long enough for Crowley to slide down the sofa until they’re right next to each other. 

“Stop overthinking,” he says flatly, and if he’d been in a mood to be amused by hypocrisy, he would have laughed. Then, because while they _are_ touching and it _is_ nice, it is also stiff and awkward, and he’s about five seconds from fleeing (more like five years, but that doesn’t sound as dramatic), he says, “Just- _yes,_ put your arm around me, if you want to, at least, I’m up for trying it, unless you want to try something else, actually you probably-”

Aziraphale, who _is_ in a mood to be amused by hypocrisy but is kindly suppressing that for the time being, lays an arm around Crowley’s shoulders and pulls Crowley firmly to his side. 

Crowley’s behemoth of a run-on sentence ends in a sound that he would deny is a squeak, if he were paying enough attention to notice that he’d made a sound at all. He doesn’t notice that, however, because he’s too busy noticing that Aziraphale is warm, and soft, and that he’s leaning on Aziraphale, and Aziraphale is letting him, and Aziraphale _invited_ him, and is even now holding him across the shoulders and keeping him there — well, no, he could get away any time, he just doesn’t want to — and it’s really, really nice. He is going to stay like this forever. Or until Aziraphale wants to move.

“This all right, love?” Aziraphale asks, and okay, being called _love_ always gives him a jolt of fuzziness in his chest that he doesn’t know what to do with. Hearing it while the side of his face is pressed against Aziraphale’s shoulder and Aziraphale’s arm is heavy across his back and side is downright overwhelming.

Crowley nods and makes a vaguely affirmative sound, since apparently the “language” part of his brain has given up on existence. In an effort to make clear how _very okay_ this is, he throws his own arm across Aziraphale’s middle and wiggles a little closer. Everything seems to have narrowed to sensations: softness, warmth, pressure, affection. He realizes that he’s barely breathing, too focused on other things, and carefully inhales, not wanting to disturb this precious balance. 

After a minute, Aziraphale lays his cheek on top of Crowley’s head, adjusting his arm to keep them from slipping. “Still good?” he asks softly.

“Yeh,” Crowley says, since if he nodded now he’d knock Aziraphale off, and that would be absolutely unacceptable. “You?”

“I’m very good, my dear.”

“Good,” Crowley says. “Don’t let’s stop this.”

“All right,” Aziraphale says, and he’s almost whispering now, still holding Crowley close, with Crowley holding him right back. “All right.”

Crowley closes his eyes and lets himself drift.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I'm always happy to write cuddly dorks, so knowing that other people will enjoy reading it is really nice. Let me know what you think!


End file.
